In soma est
by Kuro Guardian
Summary: He doesn't sleep afraid to choke to death on dust and absence.


There is a ghost in his bed and a monster at his back. He sleeps with his eyes closed not thinking of how he is always reminded of that other slept with eyes open face-up with hands by his side. This isn't happening, there are no fingers in his hair no bodies next to him warm and stealing warmth like some unfathomable spider. This is not happening he is alone on a sub par bed little more then an inch thick piece of fluff under worn grey sheets. The room is old that's why it smells of dust it isn't any ghosts.

Doesn't mean he'll open his eyes though he slits them to watch his old friend smile bright and happy like a child all blue eyes and mischief. A laughing ghost who smells of summers and dust - the dust of parched trails winding toward home, the dust of memories no one else recalls except an old man he doesn't bother trying to remember, because he'll never forget him. A thousand lectures running through his head. A thousand and one from the pale lips at his throat viper teeth carefully sheathed. A thousand and more left like phantom pains courtesy of temperamental blondes wizened away under perfect skin. He wakes hard and guilty needing to move, to go, to be anywhere, but here.

He doesn't sleep, back flat against a hardwood wall in another smoky outta da way hole-in-the-wall downing cup after cup. It's an automated drive to which he is entirely immersed as the day grows shorter and the bar fills to capacity and beyond. His hand trembles fingertips dampening with sake, but he's a ninja damnit and he doesn't … ninja aren't so weak. "But pranksters are, aren't they Jiraiya?" He sneers having always hated honey so wild and complicated. His own words are slurred as badly as his vision room like a rhombus cube 'neath water. He blinks sees the cup precisely placed before him with the bottle on the other side of the table.

"Bastard." She laughs at him always getting the upper hand. Closes his eyes so tired because he never sleeps if he can help it, this never happened. The space across him is empty. Mesmerized he watches the bottle there float upward. His face is flushed watching the long, white throat work, squirms as he watches the fantastic tongue lick away the dribbles. "You're, you're me-messy." He laughs a happy drunkern in a sea of wasted moments, this never happened, "this never happened". Falls asleep on a dozen paper napkins about other things that never happened.

He doesn't sleep back flat on the floor his eyes trained to move on their own while he focuses on nothing. He is leering with practiced loathing. His prey is pretty like one of his story characters: 'pale as moonlight, hair like midnight flowing like wine to the small of her back. There is no room, no world beyond the space within the lamp's glow. He doesn't think about what might be lurking in the shadows instead he notes that his great bear paw hands encircle her tiny waist entirely. Her breasts are perfect like the pink lips she licks lustful and greedy. Perfect tiny white piranha teeth to devour him whole. This isn't happening.

He rereads the scene he has unconsciously drawn while he waits for the night he's paid for to end. Behind him lies another body swamped in his robe, a head of hair blonde this time like all the people who've left him behind. "Ne sensei, do you think I'd leave you so easily?" He can't see through the hands that cover his work pad and his eyes. The child giggles his hands small and warm. "Well, sensei?" Such a voice like hazelnut chocolate - no wonder women flock to him. "Jealous?" He's on his back again despite never wanting to stop he thinks, 'this didn't happen'.

Watching them like the pervert he is knowing she knows he's there. "Does this please you?" Long clever fingers drifting down his shirt. She is perfect her blue eyes perfectly malicious behind their veil of lust, Who'd imagine they were real yet look at that bounce. He is aware of the desperate twitches in his pants, he sighs leaning back into the warmth of his torturer - "this didn't happen". His eyes burn with fatigue vision weaving like a brook through brambles.

Another town, another room - this time cheap and squalid. The faucet drips, staccato and maddening, the bed creaks as she wraps underfed arms around his neck. A little girl barely frown into the tits pressing into his back. It's easier when he can't see her face, whiskey voice husked from the souls of cigarettes skinny carcasses left to litter the floor. "What do you want? How do you like it? Is that good?" She speaks in the monotone of a bad actor, he tries to think 'this isn't happening', but he's drunk and this is **research** and she's real enough with her pretty scuffed-up little black page-boy cut. "Hn." It's like kissing an ashtray. "I've killed girls younger then you." He wakes up seconds, hours later to the scent of dust and a sight erotic and obscene. No one will ever know what he saw because he will dress hurriedly and burn the building down while the other inhabitants sleep. He listens to the unlucky ones awake only to die screaming as he fondles a piece of bloodied sheet.

He knows better now he doesn't sleep. It's as though he's forgotten all his training back to the window like a fool waiting to die. "You'll get yourself killed." Yes, the stupid pervert who can't seem to find his own ass with both hands much less death is gonna get himself killed just like the hero and the villain and the beautiful tragic princess. He starts eyes barely focusing on the work pad he where he expects to see a hand calloused and tanned. "Trash." He tries again inspiration low without research. A dozen bars untapped, a thousand willing hookers left by the wayside - can't remember what creatures lurk near baths and hot springs. Monkeys certainly, foxes? Snails? Dogs? Snakes?

He needs more research if he's going to do something worthwhile, but - "Is this good for you?" Tries again anyway, hands trembling running the pretty white skin. Frantically now he scrawls filthy words across a dozen filthy panels improbable, impossible conjoined ideologies. It's all shit, it's all gone to shit. Now it's not even happy endings in his stories. Not even his characters are allowed the slumber of sated passion. Instead they run and hide and cry among black and white drabbles about duty and honor and every other word that's ever gotten someone killed.

Gotten everyone killed. "It's just a big mess isn't?" So much so that he finally just sits there staring at the flickering shadow play resigned to sit with his ever patient sensei. He can smell smoke like a pipe and he can smell smoke like a charnel house on fire. Immature as always sitting up with the lights on hoping the light will keep the other (the one's whose deaths aren't entirely his fault) creatures at bay. There are no fingers in his hair, there are no fingers in his hair - "shh…it's okay."

Another room across town. Back on the bed - better quality, rather comfy- eyes to the ceiling feeling the pulsating of his bruised knuckles. His lips are curving up into something like a smile or a smirk. Picture a calm man seated on his knees in the middle of destruction. He is a perfect spot of calm utterly controlled utterly inhuman and that is what gives his observers pause. Something in his posture says clearly, "I can do it again". His eyes are as blank and luminous as marbles, face like a mask as he turns to smile at them supposedly repentant. "He wouldn't leave me alone." To his right he feels stalker pull in tighter red-gold eyes always pale, black hair shorter then he's ever known it to be. He smells like fire.

'I'll never leave you alone.' This isn't happening. "Yes, it is." Morning isn't coming fast enough and he feels weak, feels emaciated like a giant spider has sucked him dry. He isn't asleep though his eyes dance behind his eyelids. "We never talk." He laughs and swings amicably at his best friend's head. They ignore the strange boy who watches then his eyes a shade not found in humans. "Oh, Jiraiya you're so hurtful, I thought we were in _loouve._"Laughter in spring and it's so fucking cliché, but it's a nice day with no need for training. Never mind the little dark cloud standing yonder ever watchful gold eyes catching light like still water.

It's so badly now to "see" this young face, silver hair wild with mask pulled tight over a contagious smile. The twinkling eyes are a breath-taking cornflower blue. "Shad up mutt!" The White Fang S. Hatake. Tears are leaking pass his eyelashes finding the grooves time and grief and _pain_ have carved into his face. A long, warm tongue licks them away. 'Magpies feed on tears.' A serious face says above him standing out so wondrously against the grey dusk. Magpies birds of happiness and mischief feed upon the misfortunes of others. Snakes eat birds.

Magpies are a sign of misfortune to the one who sights them, and more things out of dusty tomes only the genius read. A hint maybe, but even that bastard couldn't see that far into the future. Quivering with the effort of containing the full measure of his grief he wonders. Whose drinking his tears? How many vengeful little magpies are tipsy off the wine of his sorrow? Doesn't matter he's always been headstrong and so he keeps weeping for his friend and his friend's tragic friend and two boys playing by a long-lost river. He wakes to a tear-fogged head and the scents of dust and absence.


End file.
